


Dead Dove

by cryingcryptids (tatterwitch)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dissociation, Drugged Sex, Gang Rape, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Object Insertion, Object Penetration, Oral Sex, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, afab language, trans man keith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 10:41:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18589609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatterwitch/pseuds/cryingcryptids
Summary: "What Shirogane ever saw in you, we'll never know. But I think we've all got a few guesses."Keith tries to pull away from the guy's hold. It's ineffectual. His body responds to his mind's commands like they're moving through wet concrete."We know what you are. Know how you got up to the top of the ranks."





	Dead Dove

The strands of damning red words still stream across the backs of Keith's eyelids as he sits outside of Iverson's office.  
  


There's a roaring in his ears that blocks out the din of people passing, voices low in conversation. He can feel the shake of his hands where they're balled in his lap.   
  


The hand of Iverson's assistant lifts from his shoulder and sweeps toward a waiting figure.  
  
  
Keith dimly recognizes the guy from some of his courses. He's tall. Plain-looking. Glasses.  
  
  
The assistant says something and Keith nods dumbly. The kid smiles. It's a forced thing.  
  
  
He knows what this is. Some kind of watch to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid or reckless in the wake of the blast of the news. News that Iverson couldn't even tell him before he'd seen it on the screens like some kind of civilian without a connection.  
  
  
It doesn't matter what he does, now. Nothing does. It's all chaos and ruin and hanging, burning wreckage beneath his ribcage and filling his skull.  
  
  
The kid says something as he leads him down the halls and to a room Keith's never been to before. The door hisses open, revealing a room that's a mirror copy to his own and probably every other cadet's.  
  


It's blessedly quiet inside and Keith floats in the threshold like a piece of debris cast from a sea-crash.  
  
  
The kid says something and gestures to the common area of the small set of rooms.  
  
  
Keith sits on the couch in the middle of the room gracelessly. He stares at the television screen and closes his eyes when those red words spanner across the bottom of the news once more.  
  
  
Something cold nudges against his knuckles. Condensation wets the back of his hand. Brown glass shines in the dim light cast from the television.  
  
  
Keith takes it wordlessly and with only the most cursory questioning look.  
  


"You look like you could use a drink." The kid says, mouth twisted into a bitter mockery of a smile.  
  


Keith wastes no time in raising the bottle to his lips and drinking. The liquid rolls over his tongue, vaguely acrid. He's never drank before but he's never wanted to, either. Now....He wonders how long it will take before the alcohol erases every memory that burns and cuts like torched razorwire.  
  


He accepts another beer when it's offered and slugs back the shot he's handed after that. 

* * *

  
  
At some point, the door opens and the kid murmurs a greeting to someone. The newcomer picks up his own drink and nurses it as Keith grimaces around another shot.  
  


The drinks blur together steadily, until Keith can't focus on much beyond holding whatever's in his hand at that moment.  
  


Bland grey fabric sinks as someone sits beside him and plucks the bottle from his hand.  
  
  
His vision smears as he tilts; vaseline streaked over glass. Something pulls at the front of his jacket and a face swims into view.  
  
  
A mouth curls into a cold grin as Keith blinks.  
  
  
"You're fucking trashed, Kogane."  
  


The middle finger he raises is knee-jerk. His tongue is thick as he tries to put together a " _Fuck off"_.  
  


Teeth flash, "That's rude."  
  
  
Chuckles raise up and Keith blinks, squints to see through the haze of his vision. How many people had come in? When had they gotten here? Why were there so many?  
  
  
Blunt fingers latch onto his jaw, grip hard enough to ache.  
  
  
"What Shirogane ever saw in you, we'll never know. But I think we've all got a few guesses."  
  
  
Keith tries to pull away from the guy's hold. It's ineffectual. His body responds to his mind's commands like they're moving through wet concrete.  
  
  
"We know what you are. Know how you got up to the top of the ranks."  
  
  
In the back of Keith's mind, alarms begin to blare. The red banners read something different as the hand in the front of his jacket dips, fingers hooking under hidden buttons.  
  


There's more movement around the couch. The television's flickering screen illuminates broad shoulders and leering eyes.  
  
  
"Guess what, Kogane. You're all alone, now. And it's _our_ turn with you."  
  
  
The front of his jacket jerks and the thick fabric rips. His arms are twisted painfully as it's yanked away. Hands haul his boots and pants off without preamble.  
  
  
His pitiful struggles earn him only laughs and stinging slaps to his face and exposed skin.  
  
  
Garrison-issued cotton is drawn down his hips and jerked up under his armpits. Hands, some calloused, some clammy and some hot, eagerly explore bared skin. His binder is tugged up to join his undershirt and hungry fingers quickly catch on his nipples.  
  
  
He twists under their touches, panic quickly rising like a flood.  
  
  
"No wonder you've got all the superiors wrapped around your fingers. You're something to look at with your clothes _on_ , Kogane. But with 'em off? It's obvious that we're all right. Question is....What are you? A cocksucker? An ass kisser? Did you _fuck_ your way to the top of the class?"  
  
  
Keith kicks out haphazardly, foot connecting with what feels like a nose.  
  
  
There's a howl of pain and hot satisfaction bursts through him before the hands on him tighten.  
  
  
The guy gripping his jaw tuts, "That was naughty. Looks like you need a little more loosening up."  
  
  
Fingers pry his mouth open and plug his nose.  
  
  
"Mix another."  
  
  
"He's already had one. Anything more-"  
  
  
"Just do it. One clearly's only just made a dent. I don't want much trouble from him, you feel?"  
  


There's a clinking sound and then something cool butts against Keith's lips. Cold liquid floods his mouth and he chokes, trying to keep from swallowing.  
  
  
The hand on his nose pinches harder and he's left no choice between swallowing or choking.  
  
  
He still coughs, alcohol dribbling down his chin and neck before the flow stops.  
  
  
"Not much of a swallower, are you?" The guy holding his face quips, laughing at his own joke.  
  
  
Keith wants to spit in his face but nothing responds to his mind's commands.  
  


"He's a hot little piece." Someone says.  
  
  
There's a whistle as he's dragged across the couch. The world spins as the back of the couch digs into the base of his spine. Blood rushes to his head where it rests on the cushions. His legs are pulled apart and he tries everything to make his muscles move.  
  
  
Dry fingers rove between his legs, pinching and exploring.  
  
  
"He's got a pretty set of holes."  
  
  
There's a murmur of agreement and the seeming leader of the group grins as he holds Keith wide with two fingers.  
  
  
"He looks dry, though. Thirsty little thing. Hey, hand me that bottle over there. No. The full one."  
  
  
Keith tries to dig his heels into the back of the couch, tries to squirm away as the guy purses his lips and spits. Saliva runs down before being smeared over his holes cursorily. The cold lip of the bottle slides through the meager wetness catching on his rim and entrance.  
  
  
"Eeny meeny-"  
  
  
Chants rise up and Keith closes his eyes tight, thankful for the small mercy of the ability to do at least that. He blocks out the preferences being shared until the bottle's neck presses more firmly against his entrance.  
  
  
Despite the drugs, Keith's legs jerk as the bottle is pushed in and quickly tipped upright.  
  
  
A strangled sort of noise rises in his throat as cold, burning liquid sloshes into him. The bottle is pumped lazily before being pulled free without preamble. The beer dribbles until his hips are tugged up. He spasms as the liquid leaks from him.  
  
  
He's situated again, thumbs pulling his folds wide for examination.  
  
  
"Look how wet you are, now, Kogane."  
  
  
Keith clenches his eyes shut tight and fights to reach a spot where he can pretend none of this is happening.  
  


Metal hisses. Leather whispers. Thick, Garrison-issued fabric rustles against itself.  
  
  
Hands sink into his hair. short nails scratching delicately. A thrill of heat sparks down his spine and he feels shame instantly burn alongside it.  
  
  
Something hot and spongy nudges against his cheek. Fingers turn his head and pull his mouth open. Musky heat fills his nose. Coarse hair grates against his cheek. The spongy, hot thing pushes over his tongue and quickly shoves deep.  
  
  
Keith gags, eyes opening only to roll back.  
  
  
There's a chorus of noises from the group surrounding him.  
  


He tries to breathe like Shiro had taught him to to keep calm. But with the cock in his mouth sliding over his tongue and pushing into his cheek, it made the pattern difficult.  
  
  
The sounds of spitting puncture the slick noises of his mouth being used. The globules of thick wetness are smeared up over his holes.  
  
  
Something calloused presses against the rim of his ass before pushing in, way barely slicked by spit. More is added before another finger joins the play, scissoring wide. Something plasticky crinkles and then cold liquid's drizzled over his hole.  
  
  
"God. You look fucking good like this, Kogane. Can't even imagine how good you're gonna look all fucked out and wrecked, though."  
  


Keith's breath catches around something like a sob and it earns him another round of laughter and mockery.  
  
  
Something blunt and hot slides along his folds before catching on his entrance. Sticky hands grip his hips as he's stretched open inexorably.  
  
  
His mind roars into static at the sensation, helplessly grabbing for things to ground him. To make any of the bearable. It offers of images of Shiro.  
  
  
Shiro, sweaty while cleaning the fighter jet he'd been assigned to before the mission. Shiro, hair damp and clinging to his temples. His cheeks flushed and the top of his Garrison-green jumpsuit pulled down; sleeve tied around his waist. Sweat making the thin white fabric of his undershirt cling to his chest and back.  
  
  
Shiro, eyes dark as he smiles down at Keith atop the roof. His civilian clothing doing nothing to hide the cut of his body.  
  
  
Shiro, breathless and hot after a sparring match. His hands still wrapped and warm when he playfully tugs at Keith's messy hair.  
  


Keith spasms around the moving length inside of him and loses himself to the fantasies of his mind. He entrenches himself in another world and drowns everything in the moment out.  
  
  
The jeers and groans and hisses fade until it's just one voice.  
  
  
The roving hands merge into a single set.  
  


When bitter-salt heat spurts over his tongue and threatens to choke him, he swallows it distantly and pants until his mouth is filled again.  
  
  
When he's left empty and wet and something hot seeps from his holes, he squirms until he's filled again.  
  


He loses track of everything except the stronger sensations inflicted to his body and the fire of his mind.  
  


Keith isn't sure when he comes back to himself.  
  


The room is empty and dark.  
  


He's still sprawled over the couch; legs splayed wide over the back and neck aching from the bad angle atop the cushions.  
  


His binder digs into the top of his chest. The soft cotton of his undershirt sticks to his throat and chin.  
  


Carefully, Keith tests his motor control. Everything aches but responds accordingly.  
  
  
He pulls his legs up and swivels to sit. The ache between his legs is immediate.  
  
  
When he gingerly stands, the world swims and his stomach rolls. He claps a hand over his mouth and catches himself on the arm of the couch.  
  
  
Once the rolling calms, he searches for his clothing. He tugs his binder and shirt back down, ignoring the tackiness coating his skin. He sways as he pulls his underwear and pants on. He's still soaked between his legs. He tries not to think about with what.  
  
  
The laces of his boots click against the floor as he clutches the halves of his jacket closed and makes for the door.  
  
  
It hisses open. Light makes his eyes burn and water. He tells himself that it's the light, anyway.  
  
  
Blessedly, he meets no one in the halls on the way to the bathrooms.  
  
  
The immaculate tiled room is empty. His steps echo faintly as he stops in front of a stall and strips. Durable cloth rustles, pools on the floor. The knobs squeak. Water rushes from the showerhead, steam rising up.  
  
  
Keith hits dispense on the cleanser box beneath the shower head until it has nothing left to give. He scrubs until his skin is raw and sits beneath the spray until it turns frigid.   
He dresses numbly, still soaked, and makes for his room.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Iverson pulls him into his office. He makes it clear that there won't be an investigation. That there won't be a mission of retrieval. That all other missions have been cancelled until further notice. That the board have declared the finding of 'Pilot Error' final.  
  
  
That's the morning Keith stands up, cocks his fist back, and ruins Iverson's left eye socket.  
  
  
That's the morning Keith is given two options; leave or be dishonorably discharged.  
  
  
That's the morning Keith packs his meager belongings and marches through the throng of cadets to the garage. He snatches the key to the cherry-red speedster and takes off on it before anyone can stop him.  
  
  
That's the morning Keith disappears into the desert and doesn't look back.


End file.
